


Kyokubiki

by distantsonority



Category: Samurai Warriors
Genre: Angst, Community: fics20in20, Drabble Collection, Drama, F/F, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantsonority/pseuds/distantsonority
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of themed drabbles, all of the Motochika/Mitsuhide persuasion. SW3 canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Damn

**Author's Note:**

> These first twenty drabbles were written for round 3 of the fics20in20 livejournal community, under my pseudonym _inmemorybound_.

Their rebellion will resound across the land not long from now; soon they shall head for Honnōji to claim Nobunaga's life.

Destiny looms over them, casting expansive shadows.

Their resolve cannot be overcome. Motochika will not allow it.

Motochika drops his bachi and pushes his shamisen from his lap to the floor. He reaches out, tangling his fingers into Mitsuhide's hair as he shifts onto his knees and surges forward, capturing Mitsuhide's mouth in a kiss. Only a split-second passes before Mitsuhide responds to Motochika's advance.

Their lives are forfeit; they both know that if they are victorious at Honnōji they will have other battles to fight, just to survive. It is a cruel twist of fate that they oppose Nobunaga to prevent being swallowed whole in the first place. Motochika was damned the moment that the Uesugi were no longer a threat to the Oda; Mitsuhide had damned himself the second that he'd set foot on Motochika's island to warn of the impending invasion.

Mitsuhide's lips are soft, but his kiss is powerful; Mitsuhide's fingers grip Motochika's shoulders with a warriors strength.

If they are to die, it will not be before they have experienced this: love made explicit, once and for all.

It does not matter whether all is only this one night, or until the next battle, or the one after that, or after countless years.

They will stand together and hold this memory in their hearts as they coat their hands in blood.


	2. Dark

Motochika resolved to take Mitsuhide in the sunlight, one day: a slow and tender coupling, pleasure roused in steady waves, smooth momentum swelling towards a perfect crest.

For now they were in the dark, grasping stolen moments in the eye of the storm as a sea of enemies marched closer.

Moonlight provided scarce illumination; Mitsuhide's fingers dug into his back hard enough to bruise. The way that Mitsuhide arched into his thrusts echoed the desperation in his moans. Motochika couldn't catch his breath at the sound of it, at the sensation – instead he pressed deeper into Mitsuhide's body and groaned as he felt Mitsuhide's thighs quiver in response.

He slipped a hand between them and wrapped his fingers around Mitsuhide's straining erection; Mitsuhide's resulting keen was beautiful, and Motochika's breathing hitched. Mitsuhide tossed his head, restless with desire, feeding Motochika's fervour. The rhythm of his hips grew increasingly erratic, and Mitsuhide rocked into them with deep yearning. Mitsuhide's cries stuttered into one another as though he was overwhelmed by pleasure on all sides; low moans fell from his own lips, an incidental accompaniment.

Then Mitsuhide was coming, squeezing tight around him with one last breathless, unrestrained moan; Motochika thrust into Mitsuhide with abandon and lost himself in orgasm.

He blanketed Mitsuhide with his broader body afterwards, sated. A hand touched his jaw after a moment, pressing lightly in silent request – he turned his head and Mitsuhide's mouth found his.

For this infinitely precious bond, they would prevail against the odds.


	3. Dearth

Motochika has many healing wounds. Most are worse than his injured wrist, yet that is what pains him the most.

His shamisen lies abandoned at his side, cleaned of all remnants of battle.

Silent.

His wrist aches, bone-deep.

When Mitsuhide enters the room it takes one glance between Motochika and his instrument before guilt seeps into Mitsuhide's dark eyes. Silence stretches out.

Mitsuhide knows that he fights for Mitsuhide's sake. Motochika believes that Mitsuhide's dreams are worth risking everything for. Mitsuhide doesn't, but that's not Mitsuhide's decision to make.

He beckons Mitsuhide over.

There is one way to alleviate the guilt that he has caused – a way that might also alleviate the absence bothering him.

Once Mitsuhide sits, Motochika takes his shamisen by the neck with his uninjured hand and sets it upon Mitsuhide's lap. Mitsuhide's eyes widen, startled. Motochika picks up his bachi and moves behind Mitsuhide, bracketing the younger samurai with his body.

“Lord Motochika...”

Motochika ignores Mitsuhide's protest. He places his bachi down and reaches around Mitsuhide, pulling his shamisen into the right position.

His good hand lifts one of Mitsuhide's hands to his shamisen's neck, then curls Mitsuhide's fingers around it. He turns Mitsuhide's other hand palm up and adjusts Mitsuhide's fingers; he picks up his bachi and balances it upon them.

He closes Mitsuhide's hand with his own. The contact lingers; Motochika tucks his chin over Mitsuhide's shoulder.

“But I –”

Motochika interrupts Mitsuhide's second, flustered protest.

“I shall guide your hands,” he reassures, confident.


	4. Draft

Tired and only half-conscious, Mitsuhide tells himself that it is a draft that makes his bed cold. That is the most reasonable answer, when he takes his aching heart out of the equation. He is too weary to feel starkly alone, longing for the radiating heat of an absent man. If he begins now then it will only torment him for the long spaces in between, until their next reunion.

It would be easier to love someone who did not live on a separate island altogether; a man not already possessing loyalties that had no presence in his own day-to-day life; a woman he could marry into his own household.

Rather uncharitably he thinks: Lord Motochika prides himself on being difficult. Why not in this respect, too?

But he knows that is only his frustration talking. His longing cannot be without echo, across the Inland Sea.

Their time together is wonderful – but too short, and spaced so far apart.

He knows what it is like to fall asleep wrapped in Motochika's hold and wake up with Motochika's warm weight pressed all along his side. He recalls nights of overwhelming need, and mornings of slow-dawning pleasure.

Once is enough to never be able to forget; an irreversible shift.

Better that it is only the work of a draft – that way tomorrow his bed might not seem so chilled.

(Meanwhile, on the smallest of Japan's main islands, a ballad played on a lone shamisen resounds in the night.)


	5. Drop

It was distracting.

Not distracting enough to occupy his full attention, but Mitsuhide found his gaze flickering back to it: a single drop of water, rolling down Motochika's chest.

Motochika had dived from his flagship into the ocean earlier, submerging briefly; the sun had mostly dried Motochika, but Motochika's hair and fur stole remained damp and dripping.

The droplet trailed down the curling sea-green line of Motochika's pectoral tattoo.

“My hakama are soaked through already,” Mitsuhide sighed, regretting having greeted Motochika knee-deep in the ocean. “Some poor servant will have to mop up the puddle I trail.”

Motochika was predictably unrepentant. “Have a change of clothes brought to you. Swap before we head indoors.”

The suggestion mortified Mitsuhide; he felt his cheeks colour. Worse, he still tracked the path of that droplet; it had reached the top of Motochika's defined abdominal muscles.

Any moment now, Motochika would notice his preoccupation and call him out on it.

“Lord Motochika, I am not undressing in public.”

Mitsuhide stressed those words, though Motochika's remark was not entirely useless – he would compromise and use the closest available room to change.

They could not all do as they pleased.

The droplet ran along the contours of Motochika's abdomen, and down the lowest curve of Motochika's stomach. Really, Motochika's trousers were slung indecently low –

An amused hum swiftly ended Mitsuhide's distraction.

The smirk that dawned on Motochika's face deepened Mitsuhide's flush; he sighed heavily, grateful that those witnessing this reunion only saw his back.


	6. Drag

Nobunaga's blood splattered his face.

Honnōji burned behind him – the light of the flames allowed Mitsuhide to see each crimson mark staining his skin, impossibly vivid, reflected on the surface of his katana.

He couldn't breathe. Despair suffocated him. His grip loosened; a sudden stab of revulsion made his stance falter.

He could not look away.

Mitsuhide flinched when a hand curled round his, tightening his hold on his katana. He found that his throat was too tight to speak.

Motochika guided his katana back into its sheath. Motochika's eyes were steady as they held his gaze.

He let Motochika pry his fingers from the handle of his blade. When Motochika enveloped those same fingers in a hold a tattered noise escaped his lips, torn out forcibly; it sounded like the whimper of a wounded animal, raw and pained and desperate.

Such a pathetic utterance was unbefitting of a seasoned samurai, a shameful thing.

“We must leave, Mitsuhide.”

Mitsuhide gave no answer and made no move to go, yet when Motochika's hand tightened and tugged him along, Mitsuhide gave no resistance. He always trusted Motochika.

The shock began to wear off once they were in motion. He breathed deeply; the cloying heat of the burning temple lessened and he felt the warmth of Motochika's firm grip as he was dragged along.

Soon he found the strength to run for himself. Motochika let go after a sideways glance; they both slowed as they approached his men, and fell into step.


	7. Don't

“Don't waver,” Motochika demanded of him.

Though Motochika was stretched out beneath him, though Motochika's voice was husky and uneven with desire, the daimyo seemed no less powerful for it – only more impatient than Mitsuhide could recall Motochika ever being.

That was immensely flattering.

His blush was doubtlessly furious now, but he fought back any shyness that threatened to come forth. Motochika tugged his hair – not too hard, but not softly, either – in an attempt to provoke him into action.

“Patience, Motochika,” he answered breathlessly.

“Mitsuhide...!”

Hesitation seemed impossible when faced with the raw need in Motochika's cry.

Without further ado, Mitsuhide pushed into Motochika's body and gasped at the sensation; he watched as Motochika threw back his head and groaned raggedly.

From there he thought little and acted on instinct; he started slow but soon found his stride and rhythm and did not falter.

It felt incredible.

Motochika was the kind of man who always dominated – not through effort, but by nature: independent with unrelenting self-confidence, decisive and unrepentant, answering only to himself.

Motochika was made desperate by his touch. Motochika begged for Mitsuhide to take him so thoroughly that tonight would never slip from memory.

Motochika let Mitsuhide touch him so deeply that their lives were irrevocably bound.

He had always viewed Motochika as someone far stronger than he was. Right now, he held all the strength; he would carry Motochika through this.

Though he felt his heart might burst, brimming too full, Mitsuhide did not waver.


	8. Down

Motochika would have felt sick with accumulated pain, had he not been so exhausted. Stubborness, desperation and the knowledge that they were on the precipice of seeing Mitsuhide's ambition realised had driven him on. The battle's course ran the same as previous engagements: the odds were against them, they took a stand regardless, they were beaten down yet staggered back to their feet and grasped victory through sheer conviction, together.

Motochika had lost sight of Mitsuhide towards the end of the battle, when he'd engaged Honda Tadakatsu; he couldn't spare the attention to look for Mitsuhide, because it took all of his concentration to avoid defeat. But Mitsuhide had shown his true strength then, pressing on into the enemy's main camp. Mitsuhide closed in on Ieyasu, a swooping hawk.

Motochika did not believe he would have survived, had Mitsuhide not brought a swift and decisive end to the battle by defeating Ieyasu and holding the daimyo at his mercy.

“We are old friends,” Mitsuhide said quietly of Ieyasu, in their own camp. “He is patient and thoughtful, with good foresight, but I... I have the greater skill as a warrior.”

“How does it feel, Mitsuhide, to have the land in your grasp?” he asked, smirking.

Mitsuhide parted his lips, then after a moment shook his head, dazed.

Motochika laughed freely – his ribs protested – and caught hold of Mitsuhide's nearest hand. “Soon we can wash compassion over your land.”

Hope and fragile happiness shone in Mitsuhide's eyes. “But first, we rest.”


	9. Dawdle

Motochika had no intentions of waking Mitsuhide.

Mitsuhide looked so peaceful as he was – after Honnōji, the weight of the younger samurai's legacy was heavier than it had ever been before, with consequences. Mitsuhide's deep, even breaths stirred the fur of his stole; the tufts tickled his throat. Motochika did not move. Instead, he carefully tucked his arm tighter around Mitsuhide's waist.

This was too comfortable and intimate to disturb, though they both had responsibilities that they eventually needed to see to. Mitsuhide was draped over his chest, legs neatly tucked in the cradle of his own, head pillowed on his thick stole; Mitsuhide's long, silken hair was loose.

Mitsuhide had not meant to fall asleep. They had been mid-conversation when it happened, but Motochika did not begrudge Mitsuhide it. He has seen signs of Mitsuhide's awareness dulling, but had purposely not pointed them out – in his presence, Mitsuhide relaxed all of his guards; Motochika understood that Mitsuhide would not drift off in anyone else's company.

It was an occurrence that Motochika took great pride in. Mitsuhide's unwavering trust was an irreplaceable gift.

Motochika had promised Mitsuhide that he would be Mitsuhide's strength; Motochika had not limited his vow to the battlefield alone.

Not that it was a selfless act.

Motochika enjoyed the quieter moments they shared, as well as the passionate ones. He anticipated the moment when Mitsuhide stirred awake slowly, slightly rumpled and sleep-fogged, expression private and adoring for him alone.

Motochika was in love.


	10. Dapper

Motochika is smirking at Mitsuhide, as though seeing his thoughts. Perhaps Motochika can – the other man has told him in the past that the feelings in his heart resound clearly on his face.

The formal side of him approves of Motochika's traditional wear, yet overall, Mitsuhide feels... disturbed by the sight, in all honesty. After the long years of their acquaintance, Mitsuhide is used to Motochika's unique, provocative manner of dress – tight trousers and bared skin, dramatic accessories. Everything about Motochika is uncompromisingly bold.

To see Motochika so... modestly clothed is wrong, somehow.

Mitsuhide actually misses the sight of Motochika's body. He suspects that Motochika has done this just to provoke him.

Mitsuhide feels mildly embarrassed.

“Lord Motochika. Are you not uncomfortable?”

The look in Motochika's eyes as he answers confirms Mitsuhide's suspicions. “How so, Mitsuhide?”

Motochika wants him to explicitly bring it up; feeling a little rebellious, Mitsuhide moves instead, stopping in front of Motochika. He hesitates, suddenly feeling shy, then reaches out a hand anyway. He grasps Motochika's layers of kimono, gives a sharp tug to loosen them, then pulls the layers of material down Motochika's right arm, baring Motochika's tattooed shoulder.

“You do not like any excess material,” he says, because he knows Motochika as well as Motochika knows him. His tone sounds softer than he intends.

His fingers trace the curl of Motochika's tattoo. He closes his eyes when Motochika's left hand strokes through his hair, and his breath catches.

Oh, Mitsuhide thinks, self-awareness dawning.


	11. Sense(s): Taste

Mitsuhide's childhood name was Momomaru; as a consequence, Motochika finds Mitsuhide's devout love of peaches amusing.

But today it's not amusement that is roused, as Motochika regards the gleam of peach juice on Mitsuhide's mouth – the sweet tang washes over his taste buds when he runs his tongue over Mitsuhide's lower lip, and Mitsuhide's resulting sigh stokes his hunger.

Mitsuhide's mouth parts beneath his attentions, a second later, and Motochika chases the taste inside; his tongue strokes over Mitsuhide's teeth and along the roof of Mitsuhide's mouth. A soft, attractive noise catches in Mitsuhide's throat when their tongues meet. Motochika presses closer, a shock of heat rushing through him.

The taste of peach quickly fades, but Motochika has already forgotten his original intent. The need to breathe means that Motochika eventually breaks their kiss, but it's only a temporary parting: he kisses Mitsuhide again, and for a long while afterwards.


	12. Sense(s): Fashion Sense

Mitsuhide looks horrified as he holds up the trousers Motochika passes him.

“They are slashed in the thigh,” Mitsuhide objects, subtle accusation in his tone.

“You're right,” Motochika replies, entertained by the observation. “They were my favourite pair, once.”

There was a time when Motochika was slender, halfway between his androgynous youth and his current build.

Mitsuhide continues to stare.

“Reconsidered, have you?” Motochika asks, and while he does not laugh, it's a close call.

“I should,” Mitsuhide says sternly. “This is ridiculous.”

Mitsuhide has a point there, but Motochika stands by his challenge regardless. “I do not deny it.”

“Don't you have an intact pair?”

“None that would fit you. Besides, that is the intentional design.”

Mitsuhide's look rather suggests that Motochika has questionable taste in dress.

"They have impact," Motochika says pointedly.

It's a very good thing that Mitsuhide can be stubborn too, Motochika reflects, after Mitsuhide changes.


	13. Sense(s): Sense of Compassion

The first thing Motochika noticed was that Mitsuhide had still not cleaned Nobunaga's blood from his face.

Before they had marched on Honnōji, back in Shikoku, Motochika told Mitsuhide that he needed to be prepared to get blood on his hands if he wished to realise his dream for a compassionate land. He'd known it was going to be exceedingly harsh on Mitsuhide to act, but Motochika had not anticipated the full extent of the agony it caused.

Mitsuhide was too kind for the cruel age in which they lived. There'd been no other choice for either of them: resist, or be swallowed whole.

He stepped out of the room to fetch a bowl of water and a scrap of cloth, then returned and sat down directly in front of Mitsuhide. He set the water down on the tatami.

Mitsuhide looked inexplicably small; fragile.

Motochika extended a hand and lifted Mitsuhide's bowed head, fingers hooked under Mitsuhide's chin.

Mitsuhide should not have looked so subdued, but rather proud, to have acted as his conscience demanded – to have chosen mercy over loyalty to the Demon King.

Motochika dipped the cloth into the bowl then squeezed out the excess water. He brought the damp material to Mitsuhide's face and began to tenderly wipe the younger samurai's face clean.

Only when the task was finished did Mitsuhide stir. Mitsuhide's hands shot up to clutch Motochika's wrists.

“He knew that I had come to end his life,” Mitsuhide wept, “and he merely laughed.”


	14. Sense(s): Sense of Urgency

“We should wait until we are on land... in my rooms...”

To Motochika's ears, Mitsuhide's words sounded uncertain in their conviction. Contrary to his suggestion, Mitsuhide let Motochika untie his obi and tug down his fundoshi, and Motochika felt Mitsuhide shiver at each kiss placed low on his stomach.

Motochika's ship was empty, anchored, his men ashore; they had relative privacy. Mitsuhide had been the one to kiss him first, even if Mitsuhide had not anticipated this consequence.

"Tell me to stop, and I will."

For a moment Motochika watched Mitsuhide consider, torn between embarrassment and desire.

"You are incorrigible, Motochika," he sighed, then added just short of a whisper, "Don't stop."

The first touch of Motochika's tongue, lower yet, had one of Mitsuhide's hands flying up to clamp over his mouth and smother a cry.

Motochika moistened his lips, unrepentant, then wrapped them around the head of Mitsuhide's erection.


	15. Sense(s): Hearing

Mitsuhide has heard Motochika play thousands of times, over the years. He's witnessed Motochika's skill with the shamisen grow, maturing with their transition from young boys to men, from fresh-faced samurai to veteran warlords. He has listened to its songs echo though castle rooms and across battlefields.

With such extensive immersion, Mitsuhide learned the difference between the sounds of Motochika's formal playing and private expression. Motochika's music is so integral to his self-conception that Motochika treats it as he treats his innermost feelings. He does not disguise his ability; he displays it with blunt honesty and dramatic flair. Yet few have seen beneath the surface reflection and experienced the full depth.

It's only appropriate that the notion is best expressed by a water metaphor.

Mitsuhide understands how Motochika works better than anyone.

As Motochika plays this time, head tipped against Mitsuhide's shoulder, it has never sounded so intimate.


	16. Author's Choice 1-5: Rule 63 AU

### Part One

Mitsu finds that a naginata doesn't suit her, but a katana does; she wields it with swift grace, and she has greater potential than any other of her sword master’s students. They say that if she had been born male, she would have been the perfect samurai. They say one day her sons will be.

Many years after his death, Mitsu strips herself of all feminine adornments, and puts on her father's kosode, hakama and armour. She ties her magnificent hair back in a modest ponytail at the base of her neck. Takanaka Hanbei tells her that the Oda are coming to attack the Saitō.

She takes up her blade.

*

The Demon King takes notice of one samurai's skill in particular, and Nō laughs as she tells her husband that he watches a samurai's daughter.

“Is that so?”

“Akechi Mitsu,” Nō recalls.

Nobunaga only has interest in a samurai, not a lady of the court.

After the Oda's victory, Mitsu looks at the gift from her new Lord in wonder: her own samurai's garb and gleaming new katana.

She writes to Chika.

*

“It suits you,” is the first thing Chika says, when they next meet in person.

Mitsu feels her cheeks colour under Chika's intense regard.

“Isn't that what I told you?” she says softly, turning her eyes on Chika's tattooed face.

“We have both found our rightful places.” Chika smiles, affectionate, and takes hold of Mitsu's hands. “Now we stand against tradition together.”

She squeezes Chika's hands, thankful.

 

### Part Two

Growing up, Chika hated the way others spoke of her.

(Our little princess, whose music is the sweetest in the land; a beauty bound to make her husband immeasurably happy.)

She never wanted to belong to anyone except herself. She felt stifled by a woman's place. She learned it anyway, because she wished to know what she was up against, and when she made her father proud he allowed her to sit with him as he worked, playing quiet songs. Whether or not her father was aware of it, she learned a daimyo's world too, and took it to heart.

She discovered how to make her shamisen her weapon and practiced in secret, perfecting her art in ways no one imagined as preparation towards one day crafting her own legacy.

She had samurai's blood, as much as any man. She was not afraid to fight for her ambition.

*

Mitsu understood. Chika was sure of that, even though Mitsu found comfort in most tradition. Mitsu fought like a samurai and sparred with her when she asked; Mitsu talked history and strategy with her, and Mitsu was artistic, as talented with words as she was with music.

When they were both on the cusp of adulthood, acting boldly, Chika found that Mitsu's mouth was soft and yielding under hers with a single, parting kiss.

“The tides of history are about to change,” Chika told her. "First Tosa will be unified, then Shikoku. I shall fight."

*

In time, Shikoku came to be hers.

 

### Part Three

Mitsu's world crumbles beneath her feet when Nobunaga orders preparations to begin for the invasion of Shikoku.

She needs air; the castles walls feel claustrophobic.

There are eyes upon her as she steps out into the courtyard; she catches the passing scent of perfume and gunpowder.

“We all have a day when we must make a choice...” Nō says to her without accusation, mysteriously empathetic, before leaving her alone.

Mitsu remembers the warmth of Chika's hands and their single, brief kiss many years ago. She thinks of Chika's unwavering support. She hears music in her mind.

Her heart feels weary. She is tired of her Lord's cruelty.

*

She will take Nobunaga's life at Honnoji; that is her decision.

Chika wraps her arms around Mitsu, pulling Mitsu down to the floor and to her chest. Mitsu holds on and breathes deep and slow, orientating herself. She cannot lose Chika; it's unthinkable.

*

It's agony, doing as her conscience demands. Nobunaga laughs. She cuts him down, the victor in their duel.

*

They call her a traitor now. They say a woman's soul is too weak; that this is what happens when they are allowed to parade as samurai. Those who served with her say that it is Chika's influence that has stained Mitsu's white hands; that Chika has disgraced her too.

"You can do this, Mitsu," Chika says, standing beside her. "We will resist them all."

She is uncertain. It feels like endless punishment.

*

Yet they survive, one battle after another.

They win.

 

### Part Four

Chika is caught off-guard when Mitsu leans in and kisses her, shy and soft, impossibly good.

It's not that Chika has been unaware of the attraction between them. They have loved one another for years, and Chika intended to act upon it, now that Mitsu's ambition was realised. But Mitsu has been emotionally fragile since the incident at Honnōji – Chika restrained herself, so that Mitsu had space to heal.

Her eyes flutter shut and she brings up her hands to cradle Mitsu's face. Mitsu pulls back a fraction, a moment later.

“So you did not forget,” Chika says, one corner of her lips curling upwards into a smirk.

Mitsu flushes, but stands her ground. “Never,” she whispers.

“Excellent,” Chika answers, before she captures Mitsu's mouth in a second, deeper kiss.

They need no husbands; only each other. They will resist tradition again, and compose their own intimate song.

 

### Part Five

Chika's hair is growing out; her layered spikes curl at the ends now, making her look softer. Mitsu twists one around her finger.

Chika smiles up at Mitsu, then presses her lips to the inside of Mitsu's thigh.

"You carved that hair comb yourself and left it with my shamisen, where you knew I would find it," Chika accuses with confidence, against Mitsu's soft skin.

"Yes," Mitsu answers, breathless.

Chika licks a line upwards, and laughs lowly at Mitsu's whine. Mitsu spreads her legs wider.

"You are responsible for the blue kosode decorated with waves that sits with my clothes," Chika continues, nuzzling the crease of Mitsu's thigh.

Mitsu hums a noise of agreement; it's full of need.

"You wish to dress me up."

Mitsu's head thumps back against the futon. "I... yes, I ... please!"

Chika takes pity on her and puts her mouth to work between Mitsu's legs.

She finds great pleasure in this: the cries she draws from Mitsu's mouth, the way that Mitsu writhes and begs for more, for her alone.

After she has plunged Mitsu into orgasm, Chika moves up to lie against Mitsu's side. Soon Mitsu recovers, and her hand strokes over Chika's stomach then moves lower, fingers sliding between Chika's wet folds; Chika loses herself in bliss for a while.

Later, when they lie in a loose embrace, Mitsu asks softly: "Did you like my gifts?"

Mitsu's forefinger traces the tattoo curling over Chika's right breast as she waits.

"I did," Chika says, content.


End file.
